


The Jungle, Our Anvil

by Necronon



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Artistic Liberties, Blood and Injury, Bottom Vaas Montenegro, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Hand Feeding, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Internalized Homophobia, Jason Stays, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mommy Issues, Objectification, POV Multiple, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Jason secures a fragmented Vaas, Hoyt imparts some truth, and Rook bows to a new monster.





	

**Jason**

 

It’s noon, and there are no clouds in the sky to relieve the stifling heat. The beach shivers where the sun bakes the shore, the only reprieve the occasional spray of seawater ferried in by rough, coastal winds. Even the whooping of the inland primates sounds fatigued, but he’s probably projecting.

Jason’s standing back with a few guys in the mouth of a cave--a chasmal and partially camouflaged dock--soaked with sweat and observing a dark-skinned man chatting with one of their traffickers: captain to a commercial freighter bound for China. They should be loading the cargo by now, but something’s wrong; the exchange is taking too long. Jason openly eavesdrops, but most of the conversation is in Cantonese.

He keeps his gaze on the captain as his friend breaks away and trots over.

“Trouble?” Jason asks once he’s within earshot.

“Our driver never showed up with the guns.”

“The ones for the client in Hong Kong?”

“That’s the one.”

“What happened?”

"Ambushed.”

Jason peers past the bigger man and at their anxious associate. “Not likely.”

It’s been several months since the late kingpin’s death, and in that time, Jason has amassed a considerable following--picked up the pieces and the people left awry. The pirates and privateers had been the easiest, tossing in their fair-weather allegiance with whoever could afford them. He’d left the Rakyat in utter bedlam, but Dennis had taken the brunt of that. The locals had heralded Jason as some kind of revolutionary, come to free them from Volker’s tyranny and the combined brutality of his privateers and Vaas’ pirates. So when his partner, Ellis, tells him that they’ve been hit, he can narrow the suspects down to one hand. Except the culprit isn’t a single one of them.

Ellis lowers his voice and walks Jason away from their company. “They’re saying this guy is crazy. Some OG from before you came along, and he doesn’t give a fuck about your new world order. Big scar on his face. Runs his mouth off.”

Jason’s a man of few words these days, but Ellis can read his body language. It’s one of the man’s gifts, reading people--and it’s the first time Jason laments it.

Ellis lets out a long sigh that deflates his deep chest, and when he speaks, his baritone voice oozes disapproval: the same voice he uses to shake down stubborn clients.

“I thought you took care of him.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason says, dragging his fingers through the growth along his jaw, “thought I did, too.”

“You gonna go after him? You gonna do what needs to be done?”

Jason shoots him a look out from under a heavy brow, _You want me to lie to you?_ and Ellis shakes his head and trudges back over to the flustered trafficker.

They’d tentatively broached the topic before, during those rare occasions Ellis had been able to get Jason to open up. Ellis had asked him how a white boy from California ends up on an archipelago in the Far East toppling a drug lord--it’d been a fair question--and Jason had asked how a South African miner ends up the same and as something of a gun-for-hire.

“ _Volker Senior,”_ he’d told him, _“But I got no allegiance to that name.”_

“ _Vacation,”_ Jason had said in turn, which had made Ellis bark a laugh and clap him on the shoulder.

Their own history together had been forged in a shitty dive on the outskirts of Bad Town shortly after Jason had said farewell to his friends and family. He’d heard the local moniker _Twofingers_ a few times before, but it’d been the first time he’d met the man addressed as such--and he’d immediately given him shit for it. Jason had been itching for a fight after everything that had happened, and Ellis had obliged. Once they had tired themselves out and had a bit of civilized exchange, discovering their reputations had preceded them, they’d struck up a tenuous friendship. As it turned out, the man’s name was a reference to his usual at the bar and nothing quite as racy as Jason had hoped.

It was Ellis’ admission of his dealings with Hoyt’s father that had prompted Jason to reveal the memoir he’d lifted from the man’s makeshift camp after his death. Which in turn had led to Vaas, to more than Jason felt like discussing, because Ellis loves to play resident therapist.

He’ll prop a book on a knee, give Jason _this look_ , then start asking him existential shit Jason has no answer for. It’s generally rhetorical, and Jason doesn’t mind. It’s when Ellis starts browbeating him about Vaas and why he keeps that book so close when Ellis hasn’t seen him touch another that Jason loses his patience.

And the journal. Jason isn’t sure why he’s kept it either. He’s not sure how to feel about what he learns from its pages. From the clean cursive that he can scarcely imagine the hand of the late Hoyt Volker writing.

 

Later that evening, they make camp. They’ve got several plantations to visit and a lot of inventory to take before they can head back, and it’s an hour into getting shit-faced around the fire that Ellis can’t resist bringing it up: the news--confirmation--that Jason’s inexplicable fixation is alive.

There’s no drowning Ellis out. He’s on the other side of a modest fire chatting away in that prophetic voice of his and feeling infallible half-way through a joint, cerebral eyes like dancing coals as they catch the light. The Malaysian lute he occasionally picks at with chipped, dirty nails is comically small lying across his massive thighs, and Jason wants to laugh. Who had given it to him again? It was a good story, but Jason’s a little too inebriated to recollect. And the man’s dramatic gesturing, dark arms illusory in the night, and bloated but resonant prose are lulling him into a trance.

It reminds him a little of Citra, of that place where reality and Dreamtime meet. Those visions that he sometimes has that make him feel so out of control.

“For that one, that lost child, you’ve taken Kierkegaard’s Leap. Look at your eyes, brother--there’s a fire there now. You’re burning!”

“That’s beautiful, El’, really something.”

“Go ahead, laugh. Are the colors around you deeper?” Ellis positions his oud and plucks out a few slow notes, the twangy acoustics fading fast in the jungle about them. “The sounds fuller? Like love, succinct because it will not last. Look at you. Trying to keep the sands of the mandala from the wind. Trying to keep the tiger in a cage. I see you.”

“He’s mine,” Jason mumbles, nodding off in the dingy chair he’s slumped in. He’s so tired. Was he talking about Vaas?

“That hubris, Jason Brody, will--”

Jason’s drifting. He finds himself thinking about the beginning.

 

 

 

**Hoyt**

 

He’d made his way into the highest echelons of the underworld by being airtight, by being less subject to vice than his competition: those pandering kiss-asses at his side pretending to be anything but a knife in his back if only he’d turn it. Cheng hadn’t been able to keep his nose out of his product and his Latin American supplier had had a penchant for the young girls working on his cocoa plantations.

Whether it was top-shelf blow or exotic women, there was a market for illicit opulence--items that paraded a man’s status, from Rolex to Panthera. Nothing was exempt from brand, and Hoyt could shake a small fortune out of a client that could afford discrimination: gold or silver, spots or stripes.

Everyone always wanted what was just out of reach, just across the pond, like it was going to bring them the satisfaction their local sources couldn’t. He thought it was primo bullshit, but it lined his pockets all the same. His boss had girls and dope from the West going east, especially where the Triads were concerned, and product from the East going west. It was easy to get an amphibious Cessna loaded with contraband into a little-known bay in international waters, or a trawler filled with anything but fish. Hell, he’d once netted a cool 4.5 mil for some czar’s Faberge egg thanks to an old Russian contact of his father’s and the help of some ballsy bastards.

Imports were always easy. Exporting was a different story, but a great deal of the responsibility was off his shoulders by then. Rook wasn’t his domain yet, but soon, and it was going to make him a fortune.

 

It was one of those dark haired girls with sun-kissed skin and full hips that had gotten to him--squabbling and spitting on his shoes as he’d bent to inspect the shipment. Real apple of his eye, while it lasted: long hair, soft mouth, and big catty eyes--a full bust and trim waist that had had his hands working at his sides. He’d kept her for a week, maybe longer. His enchantment had quickly atrophied, and he’d sold her off thereafter; had told someone to get rid of her.

They had, or so he’d thought.

Looking back, he should have recognized her features in his, the manic personality; but he’d been single-minded in his work and hadn’t been able to bring himself to care.

Now, here he was, looking at this young man that might be his son, fiery and wild and denouncing him in colorful Spanish. He didn’t see much of himself in the Montenegro boy--was that her name, or another’s?--except during those transient moments he grew suddenly inert and leveled him with an unblinking stare, eyes steady and of a shade that lent itself to the jungle. Too bright to be his mother’s, whose had been dark, bottomless wells filled with contempt for him. The little half-breed, though, there was something perceptive there, something arresting before turning tumultuous that Hoyt wasn’t sure he liked. Best he kept a close eye on the man or do away with him altogether.

Hoyt had eventually lost some good--well, at least capable--men to him in one of his fits. One of those vibrant, volatile highs. It was after his younger sister had carved up the side of his face and ostracized him that Hoyt had had an epiphany and seized the opportunity. Vaas had no ties, certainly no love for the Rakyat. The enemy of my enemy, Hoyt had thought, because Vaas was his wild card, his Goliath. He needed that, a face for his enemies to openly fear, a tangible consequence.

Garnering Montenegro’s allegiance had been tricky. He needed collateral. With his sister estranged, the little bastard had no liabilities, and if he turned, Hoyt would be left with no recourse. He had to give him something to lose. So he waited until Vaas was at an all-time low: that awful rock-bottom place that could kill a lesser man. He recognized the condition, his mother had been bi-polar or some shit, and then approached him with a promise. The affect of a cure. A reprieve. A set of wings in the form of pure powder, white and fine as any he’d smuggled.

Hoyt had made sure the man had a taste for yeyo before letting him assemble his greasy red-shirts and start harassing the locals. His pack of feral dogs. He kept a measured leash on him in the form of blow, booze, and nonchalance towards his violence. Not a lot of push-back from a man who thought he had a finger on the trigger, and Hoyt wanted to keep it that way.

Only one fed had ever gotten close. Some undercover rookie, co-piloting with one of his boss' traffickers, that was trying to get in tight with the Medellín, no idea he was out of his depth. It was supposed to be a ride-along, but the Colombians' own mole had gotten wind of his DEA status and asked a favor of them. Poor bastard was never getting off of Rook, hadn't even known he was going or where he was. Even worse, Hoyt was handing him over to Vaas. It was an exhibition of trust with the bonus of quenching the bastard’s bloodlust and setting an example. Never at any point had Hoyt thought the man’s torture was going to yield any useful information, and Vaas hadn’t blinked an eye.

The guy had been young, a fresh face perfect for undercover work. He’d almost felt sorry for him. He’d overseen some of it, curious, and hadn’t thought the exchange anything significant .

“You c-can’t do this.... I--I don’t know anything. Same as yesterday, _Jesus,_ listen to me! This is insane!”

“And why,” Vaas had asked noncommittally, probably rhetorically, as he'd plucked a tool from the lineup, “do you think that, hmm?”

“Because you keep doing this, over and over. Like something’s going to change. Like I’ll know something today--tomorrow. It’s insanity. You’re insane. Just blindly following orders. Shit bags like you are a dime a dozen. You think that guy really gives a shit about you? You think one day he won’t put a bullet in you the minute--”

Vaas had shot him then. Snap decision, probably. Vaas was like that.

Hoyt hadn’t realized something had changed until those assholes from Thailand had been lured over and caused him a world of trouble he’d not been expecting. And when he’d told Vaas to _fucking take care of that Snow White cocksucker_ , the little half-breed had postured. Vaas, who never had to be told twice to lob off a head if it got him his next high, defied him.

“Man, I don’t give _a fuck_ about Snow White.”

And Hoyt had known that he did, because the man had put a hand to the back of his shaved head and averted his eyes, had spoken a little too forcefully like his mother had used to do when she was covering for her trepidation. When she’d felt at a loss.

Somehow, right beneath his nose, some Californian jackass had gotten his hooks into Vaas, had thrown his dog a bone and sent his tail wagging for something else. He’d never understood that perverse solidarity, that juxtaposition that had kept one alive and the other sane. Never would have suspected it would ultimately lead to his demise, like his mother was getting her veangenace after all.

That little shit. He should have done away with Vaas--done away with her.

Another man might have died thinking of his son, how if he’d done right by him he would still be alive--how, so many years ago in South Africa, if his own father had done right by his son, he’d still be alive, too. But he hadn’t thought that. He’d bled out with his face twisted by rage, ready to wager his last breath to once and for all put Jason Brody in the fucking ground.

He’d had no moral revelation, hadn’t plead to any god for mercy. Hoyt Volker had never been a good man and he’d died the same.

 

 

 

**Jason**

 

Jason gets a lead on Vaas not long after the hijacking of his van. The driver comes into town, pretty roughed up but alive, and Jason wonders if he’s not been told to seek Jason out and tell him what he does. The alternative is sloppy, even for Vaas, and Jason’s not sure Vaas has ever been sloppy. Inventive, unpredictable, volatile--but not sloppy. Not accidentally.

 

The ramshackle hovel that the king calls home is what’s left of a concrete school house, patched with tin siding where the foundation’s given out and caused fissures along the walls. There are missing slabs: geometric cutouts that pulse blue, white, and gold in the night as the television set inside transitions between scenes Jason recognizes from _Escape_ _F_ _rom New York_ ; he hears muted shouting, filmy gunfire, and the grainy audio--VHS, dull and distant like a lull. He thinks of being a kid and fighting with his brothers over a Tupperware filled with party mix, and how Riley usually won because Grant would pretend to lose and Jason didn’t want to explain to Mom why Riley was pouting again.

But Jason hadn’t been able to bring himself to miss home or the safe confines of civilization. Not for a while now. Was something wrong with him? If he’s asking himself that, that means there isn’t, right?

What he does miss is the rush. It’s what has all his muscles contracted and his pulse fluttering, but as he eases a shutter up and hooks a leg over the window sill, it’s not what he finds. No idiot standing guard to shout and shoot at him.

Inside, the room is in disarray, the disjointed chaos of processed food wrappers printed in numerous languages; miscellaneous furniture tipped or stacked; and incalculable bottles, cans, and cartons. One corner’s been dedicated to what might be a filthy pile of linens that smell unholy, and Jason can’t take a step without something crinkling or cracking underfoot. Atop a dry-rotted, wicker coffee table--one leg of which has been substituted by an upturned crate (one of Jason’s, he realizes)--is an oval mirror from a looking glass boasting a hastily drawn line of coke. He figures Vaas had probably sequestered away an uncut brick for himself and wonders how much is left.

The man himself is laid out at the far end of a ratty sofa, one arm sprawled over the back while the other hangs over the side, busted knuckles grazing the floor and the neck of an open bottle of vodka. Jason can smell the stench of alcohol, acrid and pungent, and surmises the spill was recent.

Jason creeps closer and leans over him, uncertain if the man is even alive until he hears his shallow breathing. His head’s bent awkwardly against the gutted arm of the sofa, looking for all the world in a deep sleep until Jason’s heel compresses an empty sardine tin.

Vaas’ eyes flash open.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough.” Vaas tilts his head and dips his chin, little shadows pooling around his fierce eyes, the green accentuated by rings of debris and exhaustion. They’re bloodshot and he looks like shit, like Jason’s just barged in on a month-long bender.

“Why am I here, Vaas.”

“You tell me,” Vaas says. His voice is raw and barely audible. “I wasn’t sure you’d show. Heard rumors you were a player now. Good for you, Jason. Hey--”

Jason half expects it to not be there, like some bad dream. But when he rolls Vaas’ shirt up, it is: an ugly, gnarled gash. Vaas is looking at him with sharp eyes, one catching the shuddering light from the television and pulsing bright green, winking at him.

“You want to take some pictures?”

“It’s ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ”

“What?”

Jason motions towards the empty ammo and gun crates in the far corner. “Those’re mine.”

Vaas laughs softly and says, “Oh, yeah, thought that load was gonna be yeyo,” then raises his brows and offers Jason a little falsetto _“Oops!”_ and Jason’s patience thins.

“Who’re the guns for, Vaas?”

Vaas snatches him by the front of his shirt, catching Jason off guard after his sluggish demeanor prior, and brings their foreheads together. “I think we need to get something straight, _hermano_. Rook? Is mine. And by extension? Those guns.”

“So you’re a one-man army now?”

“What.” Vaas looks him up and down, then sneers. “You are.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, “and I’m a lot better at it. That’s why Rook isn’t yours. That’s why, by extension, those guns are mine. Even you,” he continues, unfazed as Vaas jerks violently away and out of the hand that had caught him by the jaw when he’d grabbed Jason’s shirt.

“Don’t you fucking touch me, _pendejo_.”

“Yeah. You’re a fucking mess. You smell like piss and tequila, not that there’s a difference.”

Jason can tell he wants to posture, wants to throw down for that, but Vaas is looking a little green around the gills. It’s the first time Jason’s seen him like this, and he thinks of the memoir again.

“Fuck. You. Jason. Why the fuck are you here? Did you drag your ass all the way here just to tell me that?”

“I had to see for myself.”

Vaas gives him a disbelieving look, then smiles once he understands. “Okay. Yeah. Me too. And here you are. Here,” Vaas adds, releasing Jason to gesture towards himself dramatically, “I am.”

“You hoped I would come here tonight to kill you?” It couldn’t be a cry for help. Assuming Jason was the only soul on the island that wouldn’t immediately kill him was dangerous. Jason had considered doing just that.

“You’re so full of shit, Jason.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I’m taking you somewhere.”

“I--where?”

“It’s like I said: you’re mine now. I like to keep tabs on my things. You. Your death,” Jason says softly, canting his head to the side as he observes Vaas, who looks like a lame animal, “when it comes. That’s up to me, and we need to talk.”

Vaas’ expression twists into a savage looking scowl, eyes wide and shining. “That’s what we’re doing, motherfucker.”

“Get up. Let’s go.”

Vaas, making a point of ignoring him, starts to reach for one of the stray bottles of booze, but Jason toes the bottle out of reach. “No.”

It’s the last straw. Vaas roars and tears off the sofa after him, but he doesn’t even get close. He’s stumbling and on his knees well after Jason’s evaded him. The open bottle of vodka clinks and rolls away, sloshing a bit more of its contents onto the sullied rug that makes up the floor. Jason’s waiting for him to flounder up when he sees his shoulders shaking. He realizes why when Vaas finally lifts his head: there are fat, angry tears streaking down the man’s gaunt cheeks, and Jason is taken aback.

Jason’s not ready for this. He reflexively reaches for the other man, but Vaas knocks his arm away.

“Look, take your fucking shit back, I don’t give a fuck--” He sits up, rattled, and reaches for the mirror. “You the fucking big man now?” Leans over the mirror and closes one side of his nose with a finger. “Okay, whatever, we can do business--”

 _\--can get me more,_ is what Jason hears.

Jason hits the table with a booted foot so that it topples off its makeshift leg, sending its contents--and the cocaine--to the floor before Vaas can get the bump to his nose, and Vaas loses it. Starts screaming. _THAT WAS IT, JASON. WHAT THE FUCK. I’LL KILL YOU._ The man’s a shit-storm of whiplash emotions, but Jason’s never seen him this gone. Furious, but not... vulnerable. Not out of control, at least not his own.

When Vaas starts at him again, still on his knees, Jason makes easy work of him. He’s got Vaas on his back, the heel of his boot on his throat as Vaas claws at his leg.

He can feel the man’s tremors through the soles of his feet.

Vaas doesn’t say anything, but Jason sees the venom in his eyes as he looks up at him. Feels the air crowd in around him. There’s so much hate, such unconcealed, bottomless rage in the pirate’s steady gaze that goosebumps texture Jason’s arm.

 _That’s_ the Vaas he remembers.

“There you are,” Jason says, barely a whisper and almost lost to the loud rattle of the movie behind them.

Vaas’ expression twists then softens. His cheeks round as he smiles, one of those wide grins that halves his big almond eyes and sets long lashes against grimy skin.

“Okay, okay, you win, Jason,” and Jason sees the _for now_ in his hooded gaze.

 

 

 

**Vaas**

 

 He wants to squeeze that _pinche_ white boy’s throat closed for doing this. For thinking he has any fucking right to decide for him, like he’s got any authority--some _puto_ from the States thinks he’s gonna take HIS shit? His yeyo, his men, his islands?

Fuck. No.

He’s going to string him up, work some Picasso magic on that motherfucker. He’s going to--

_Jason._

The name makes him feel sick. Not bad- _frijoles_ sick, but something really low in his gut, like maybe that knife had, yeah, missed his heart and buried itself in his fucking stomach instead. It’s familiar, like something he felt a long time ago when his _mami_ used to call him “ _Mijo_ ” and pull him close, some bauble in her hands or VHS to add to his scarce collection that might or might not jam up in his player. Only to be woken up the next day to her saying, hands burning around his tiny wrists, _“Those eyes, those eyes,”_ and he’d scream for her to stop, hoping it wouldn’t last very long. Hoping, if he squeezed his eyes closed tightly enough, she’d stop being so angry.

He ends up--

He doesn’t know the fuck where. There are no windows. He can’t hear the animals. It smells like stone and damp. It’s so _fucking quiet_ , like someone’s buried him at the bottom of the ocean, and he feels like he’s going to lose it. Sometimes there are hands that move him or press cool relief to his fevered body, unlike those in his nightmares that wait to encircle his wrists and pull, yanking him back and forth until a shoulder pops free.

He wants to wake up, but when he does and can’t stop vomiting, he wishes for unconsciousness again. He keeps having a dream about a bison with banded legs charging out of the brush, its pelt on fire and its hooves beating the earth. He can feel it through the ground, can never get out of the way. It’s so fucking huge. How can it be so huge?

Eventually, he’s able to stay awake for longer periods. He stops feeling so sick.

Vaas realizes Jason’s in the room with him.

Fucking _Snow White_ , such a good little jailer, coming to see him. Coming to make sure he eats. Take his shit and piss and vomit away in a nice little bucket. Or clean it up if he doesn’t make it.

Vaas hawks up a mouthful of spit and phlegm and lands most of it on Jason’s shoulder. But Jason, that _gringo fuck_ , doesn’t even look like he gives a shit, so fuck him. What’s Jason getting out of this? Vaas doesn’t remember him being this composed. He looks different, too.

“Hey, y’know it gets pretty lonely in here.” Vaas grabs himself by the crotch of his pants. “Why don’t you come over here, do me a fucking favor, and _sit on my--_ ” Vaas bursts forward, thinking he might actually land a blow, but the fucking chain snaps and stops him just short of breaking Jason’s nose, because he’s tried this before and succeeded, and Jason’s obviously learned his lesson.

Jason’s asking him again if he needs something, wants something, like he didn’t just try to fracture his face, and Jason Brody can go to hell. He’ll eat shit before he asks favors. He’ll take the fucking hose, the pail, the floor.

Jason Brody can fucking go to hell.

 

 

 

**Jason**

 

Vaas fights him every step of the way through his incarceration, only calm as pretense or when his symptoms are at their worst--when he’s soaked the sheets with his night sweats and nauseous, racked by headaches that Jason gives him analgesics for but Vaas doesn’t take.

The first two weeks are a nightmare. Jason has two guys stand guard in shifts for most of it, no key but explicit instructions to fetch him or Earnhardt for any reason. He doesn’t want to call it suicide watch, but Vaas is bonkers. He’s started bringing the man his food and medication himself, because anytime he trusts someone else to do it, they give him a look like he’s just asked them to put their head in the lion’s mouth.

Most of Vaas’ first week is spent in and out of disturbed sleep, moaning pitifully while awake and crying out and thrashing while asleep, driving the man posted outside his room to hysterics; and when he does sleep soundly, he’s impossible to rouse. Earnhardt tells him it’s withdrawal, probably exacerbated by God knows what disorders.

Sometimes he’s wracked with tremors, eyes rolled back in his head and covered in sweat. During times like these, Jason can safely enter Vaas’ vicinity, never-minding the length of his lead.

He sits on the mattress, pulls Vaas into his lap, and quietly presses a cold cloth to his face and neck. At face value, it looks a lot like sympathy--but Jason knows it’s like those naturalists on TV that reverently ruffle the fur or squeeze the giant paw of a sedate predator, savoring that unique opportunity. Delighting in the primitive need to claim with touch, to actualize the existence of such a creature. Vaas is that way. Like touching God, boundless, exhilarating as he wipes the man’s greasy brow and pulls fingers through the patchy fuzz along his scalp. These dark, private moments with his charge are sacrosanct for Jason.

Vaas has to belong to him. Him, or no one at all. Nothing at all. Not even the jungle.

Jason realizes he’s seized Vaas too tightly, fingertips spawning little pools of shadow where they’ve bitten in, when the man exhales and his brow furrows.

“Where am I,” Vaas croaks, disturbed but too faint to open his eyes. “I can’t hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“The jungle. I hate it here.”

“I’ve taken you from it.”

“Oh.” Then Vaas is unconscious again, lax face bizarrely young.

Jason, in turn, has aged years in his five months on Rook, his tattooed forearms encompassing as he sets them against Vaas’ chest, truncating the width of the man’s usually imposing frame. Jason’s always alarmed when he sees his reflection, which is too like his father now that he wears a short beard. His eyes have shed some of their youth as well, more conciliatory than they were before Rook, with an equal capacity for kindess and fierceness.

Three weeks in, Vaas is past the worst of it, and Jason’s never sure what to expect upon entering his cell. Sometimes the man is folded in on himself in the corner and practically comatose; other times, he rushes Jason so violently that the chain yanks the attached ankle out from under him and he hits the floor with a gruesome crack of elbows against concrete, screaming: obscenities, and sometimes just roaring, until his voice dwindles into a parched hiss.

Jason’s seen poached leopards this way, rebelling against their cages and new masters, spitting and convulsing until they’re weak and limp on the floor of their cage, eyes vacant. Similarly, Jason knows Vaas will never feel beholden to him, as much as he’ll never be cowed by shame or violence, and Jason wonders if their solidarity is in fact in their Godlessness, in ugliness, Rook some savage Eden. Beautiful, because they’re permitted to be so ugly--so hungry.

When Jason comes to see him a month into his captivity, Vaas has recovered his lost weight, maybe even more, and has his color (and loud mouth) back. His appetite’s returned with a vengeance, and Jason can tell he’s having an increasingly difficult time spiting him by turning down the meals he brings.

It’s during one of these times that Jason mistakenly gets within range of Vaas’ lead and receives a vicious headbutt for his oversight, Vaas cackling like a madman as Jason stumbles back, dropping a tray of dried jackfruit and venison. Jason toes the meat towards Vaas and gently tells him, “Eat like an animal, then,” before exiting, Vaas grinding his teeth and stabbing a middle finger at him.

Jason’s careful now, and Vaas doesn’t seem as quick to upturn his trays after his concrete feast, but he still hates him. Every effort he makes to cater to his charge’s well being is met with insult, and Jason thinks it must be an alien world for Vaas, this place where he’s being nursed back to health instead of torn apart. This place where he’s so subject to another’s whim. 

When Vaas tries to bait him by spitting food in his direction or urinating on the floor, opposed to using the provided bucket, Jason maintains a calm affect and leaves him in his squalor as penance.

Jason knows Vaas is running out of ideas. He’s left the man with little more than his clothes, a sheet, and a dingy mattress. His showers consist of weekly trips to a different concrete room without windows where Jason sits on a stool and aims a hose at him. Jason tells him there are actual showers with real hot water, but as long as he acts like an animal, he’ll get treated like one. Vaas postures and cusses him out, but it doesn’t mean a lot when he’s soaked and shivering, barely able to keep his teeth from chattering.

It’s about a month and a half before they have a conversation that doesn’t consist wholly of creative insult. Jason arrives with a plate of wild boar, some papaya, and a beer, because Vaas hasn’t been a little shit in record time. Vaas doesn’t even attempt to hide his roaming eyes, nose flaring as the smoky game quickly permeates the small enclosure.

Vaas is restrained by a single but sturdy length of chain padlocked to his ankle and bolted right into the concrete foundation that affords him enough slack to come within four feet of the door. Jason knows exactly how far his lead reaches, and when he crouches and sets the tray on the floor, Vaas has to utilize every inch at his disposal and still comes up shy.

Jason’s not sure why he likes to do this. Subjecting Vaas to degredation. It’s not like Vaas is modest or has an ounce of shame. No, Jason supposes he enjoys the objectification in spite of Vaas’ disposition, and Vaas has been deprived of touch long enough that he complies fairly quickly, but Jason still wonders if there’s something else in it for the other man too.

When Jason pinches off a piece of the oily meat and extends it between his fingers, Vaas cranes his head forward, chain taut so that one of his knees won’t quite reach the ground, and wraps his lips around them.

Jason patiently feeds him the entire serving this way, and Vaas obliges, sucking and laving his tongue between Jason’s fingers, letting Jason massage his greasy mouth with the pad of his thumb. He enjoys it in a kind of abstract way, like Vaas is that jaguar again and Jason’s making clinical observations. Other times, Jason’s dick swells uncomfortably against the zipper of his pants and he wants Vaas to suck more than his fingers. Vaas notices, usually goads him until he’s got Jason’s breath coming a little too short.

Some old-world part of Jason, that boy from California that had been afraid of his older brother and father calling him a fag for accidentally thinking of Joey McKinley while jacking off, is slandering him somewhere in the back of his mind. But it’s a voice that speaks a language with no meaning anymore, and Jason comes to terms with the fact that he occasionally has an overwhelming desire to fuck Vaas. Again, Vaas knows, in that inexplicable way he knows everything about Jason, and he calls him a _fucking pervert_ \--lifts his shirt or leaves it off and rocks his hips, gives Jason an eyeful of rolling abdomen when Jason’s not expecting it, or opens his pants and exposes a half-hard, uncut cock that interests Jason more than he cares to admit, and Jason has to steel himself.

Vaas probably sees his seduction as an opportunity to get a shiv between his ribs, but even knowing that, Jason’s not immune. Vaas has got a filthy mouth, and some of the things he says strikes a chord deep in Jason’s gut that leaves his mind wandering and his body humming for the rest of the evening.

It makes it hard to focus. To bring himself to ask about the book he found, about Hoyt. A thousand things that he’d initially wanted to know that have suddenly taken a back-seat to this burgeoning desire between them. Less new, and simply fostered, he thinks.

 

One day, he brings the journal with him, and Vaas is unmoved by its presence.

“What the fuck time is it?” Vaas uncovers his face where his arm’s been thrown across it and pins Jason with a bleary eye. “That your fuckin’ diary, Jason? Filled with all your sensitive feeeeelings? ‘Dear Diary. I--am--a--pussy--’ ” Vaas flourishes a hand, pretending to write. “ ‘--motherfucker.’ ”

“Volker’s, actually.” Jason crouches just within Vaas’ reach. It’s the most access to his person Jason’s given Vaas since he’s recovered enough to be a threat.

“Yeah, so?” Vaas is looking at him like he’s just kicked a puppy, no doubt unaccustomed to Jason being this close. Allowing Vaas to be this close. “Why do I care?”

“I guess you wouldn’t. What do you know about Hoyt?”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about Hoyt,” Vaas says, and Jason recognizes that forced affect, the uptick in his voice similar to what Jason heard on the tape when Vaas had been ordered to kill him. Vaas just shoots him another look and picks at his teeth with a fingernail. “What?”

“Alright,” Jason says. “Another time.”

“Wait, what is it?”

“Another time.”

“Hey, fuck you. How long are you planning on keeping me here, ‘uh? You gonna get me a collar, call me Sparky, throw some fuckin’ sticks? You that afraid I’m gonna split you open and bleed you out the second I get the chance? Because YOU’RE FUCKING RIGHT I--”

Jason pulls the door shut and looks down the hall to see a nonplussed Ellis trudging towards him.

“June wants a word with you.”

“Did she say what about?”

“No, but she looks pissed.”

“She always looks pissed.”

When Jason starts in the direction of the VIP room, Ellis catches him by the shoulder and says, “Hey.”

Jason stops and spares him a puzzled, “What is it?”

“You can’t keep him in there forever.”

“I’m not talking about this right now.”

“Jason, you know you’re just--”

“Not. Now.” He shrugs the hand off his shoulder and leaves. Jason’s heard enough of Ellis’ conjecture. Even if it’s not really conjecture.

“ _Good fucking sense_ ,” Ellis had said once, “ _and you know it.”_

Maybe Jason’s sick, too. Maybe something’s wrong with him. But he’s still asking himself, so he must be fine.

 

The Undercroft, one of Volker’s better-kept secrets, is a re-purposed Chinese military bunker fronting as a nightclub and operating as HQ. Someone had managed to repair and maintain most of the facility. There’s running water and basic air filtration, but Jason’s surprised to find that, even in the tropics, subterranean facilities keep pretty temperate. The entrance is disguised by a shitty little plank house, and had Ellis not revealed its secret, Jason would have been none the wiser. He’d run across one of the salient vents before, but had had no idea what the hell it was.

Ellis had also shown him an old P-40 Warhawk forgotten in the jungle nearby, fuselage rusted through and distinctive nose obscured by indigenous creepers. He’d decided against exploring the cockpit when his glance inside was returned by a long-tailed parakeet on a clutch of eggs, vibrant head cocked and chest puffing anxiously. There’s even a runway, now overgrown to the point of not existing at all, and Jason wonders how many secrets and how much history the jungle’s concealed or consumed over the years. There’s something about Rook, how quickly it returns things to the ground again.

The bunker’s initial level had been renovated into a club, with the second level acting as barracks, kitchen, and living and work space. A range, endemic to the original structure, sees a lot of use, especally from dubious-feeling clients.

It’s in a sequestered away VIP room with its own minibar on the first floor that he meets June, the thrum of the music dulled by several feet of concrete.

June, uncanny matron to the eye-candy Jason exhibits for his clients, is already tucked into a booth, looking bored and tapping ashes into a dented tray. She’s all lean angles in an oriental dress, black hair cropped short to frame high cheeks and a venomous gaze that Jason finds difficult to read, with a wide, rounded nose above a soft mouth. More importantly, she’s an avid critic of the club’s late owner. Jason has insofar humored her stipulations, meaning they get on well enough, so he’s surprised to hear she’s miffed--and hoping she hasn’t formed an opinion of her own about his business downstairs since they last spoke. He knows she deals with Ellis too, but he’s not so sure Ellis would go so far as to air his dirty laundry, and Vaas is about as dirty as laundry can get.

“They say you have one of Hoyt’s pirates locked up down there.”

Jason steels himself with a deep breath. “He used to work for him, yeah.”

“Please, Jason. I know who it is.”

“He’s my problem, not yours.”

“Hoyt used to send my girls their way. I always dreaded it. The ones that came back.... You do clean business, Jason. I mean, as clean as crooked can get. I’m grateful for that.”

“But? I’m not going to go off the rails or something. He’s under control.”

“I’m not worried about him. It’s just weird, is all. You know he’s gay, right?”

“What?”

“At least I’m pretty sure. He never went after my girls. Not like that. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sick fuck--I’ve heard what he does to those that cross him. Even those that don’t.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point,” she says, narrowing her eyes and exhaling a plume of smoke. “There’s just a look in your eyes. You should be careful, Jason.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

“No,” she says, flashing a quick smile. “That was just gossip.” Then her voice drops, and she leans in. “One of my girls overheard something that might interest you.”

 

The next time Jason sees him, Vaas is perched on the edge of his mattress with a vapid expression, eyes hooded and shoulders stooped--inanimate until the folded straight razor in Jason’s hand catches his attention.

Vaas draws a short breath, arms cording as he curls his fingers into tight fists by his thighs. Jason feels leery eyes on him as he walks over and drops the canvas bag in his other hand onto the mattress. Vaas is probably expecting the worst when Jason crouches in front of him and, using the blunt grip of the razor, sets it beneath his chin and lifts, exposing the long column of Vaas’ neck.

Vaas must be in a mood, because the usually scrappy man complies, only looking down his nose at him with a soft mouth and neutral expression.

“Want me to take it all off?”

Vaas’ throat bobs against the handle where Jason’s let it trail down his neck an inch. “...what?”

“Your beard.”

For the longest time, Vaas just stares at him. Jason’s not sure he’s going to answer at all when he finally says, “I say ‘no,’ and tell you to get the fuck out, will you?”

“Guess not,” Jason admits. “Take your shirt off.”

Vaas looks speculative, like Jason’s just said, _Take your shirt off so all the blood doesn’t ruin it,_ but he obliges with the faintest frown, tugging the dirty tank-top over his head, “Fucking _maricón_ ,” and shoving it into Jason’s chest.

Jason quirks a brow at Vaas and offers him a derisive “thanks” as he tosses the shirt aside. It’s his, anyways.

Vaas’ frown slowly stretches into a bemused smile as Jason empties the bag and starts to pat cream onto his face, but he doesn’t say anything--knows Jason won’t hand over the razor--only: “That looks a lot like Buck’s.”

And Jason says, “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

 

 

 

**Vaas**

 

Every stroke of the razor through thick cream stalls his breath. He’s been on the other end of Jason with a blade before, and it’s as poignant as always.

 _Gringo_ thinks he’s got it all under control, but Vaas recognizes that twinkle in his gaze as his jailer works, hears the shiver in his ghosting breath, _feels it in the blade up and down his neck, rasping over a cheek--_

_Fuck._

Vaas straddles Jason’s lap in one decisive, unprompted adjustment forward. He realizes Jason’s nicked him when he feels a painless ribbon of warmth down his neck--when he sees it in Jason’s eyes as they immediately jump to where the blood has suddenly come into being, and Vaas is satisfied in kind when he observes the open appreciation in the other man’s face. Jason looks so fucking thirsty that Vaas feels vicariously parched.

_It’d be real easy to do, Jason. Here I am._

The blade clinks against the battered aluminum bowl Jason’s filled from a bottle of water as he rinses off the shaving cream, foam pink with blood where it collects around the edge. Sick fuck. Vaas loves that he loves it. Loves the goosebumps down Jason’s neck from his breath in his ear, the unapologetic way he tends to the blade before he does Vaas. They’re both hedonists, Vaas knows. Jason might not, not yet. But he will. Motherfucker’s a dam about to break, and Vaas can’t wait for that tide to roll in. To _drown._

Vaas permits the autonomous hand that at length skirts his neck, allowing the thumb to draw a swath through the thread of blood before he catches it by the wrist and guides the digit across his lips and into his mouth. When he lets more of his weight down into Jason’s lap, he’s rewarded with a responsive twitch for his trouble.

“Already, Jason?”

Jason doesn’t say anything, but Vaas sees his nostrils flare around his next breath.

“You like this?” Vaas leans in, gets right in his ear. “Does it make you wanna fuuuuck me?” He lets his voice drag, like it’s being raked over pavement, wheels over gravel right between Jason’s ears.

“I could ask the same of you,” Jason says, probably because Vaas’ pants are _fuckin’ tight_ too--his libido has been rampant since backing off the yey--but he sees right through Jason’s composure. Vaas is no fool.

And he’s no fuckin’ schoolgirl. “Never said it didn’t.”

That gets Jason a little, that frank admission. Vaas thinks he almost looks relieved, like he’s been expectant, and Vaas wonders about that.

When Jason turns out of the kiss Vaas comes in for, he decides to take a piece of Jason’s ear instead, biting down on the fleshy lobe and splitting it with one of his incisors. Then Vaas is cackling on his back, chain rattling to the cadence of laughter, his face stinging from hard knuckles, and Jason’s slamming the door and locking it behind him.

His mouth is full of blood, mostly his and now some of Jason’s, and he can’t stop laughing because he can imagine Jason striding down the hall, a hand cupped to the side of his head, and pitching a tent the entire way.

_Let them see, Jason, how fucked you are._

Though... maybe he should have waited for the motherfucker to finish shaving him, he thinks as he pulls at some remaining hair on the side of his jaw. Of course he didn’t leave the razor.

 

 

 

**Jason**

 

A man with a chrome smile wearing a hibiscus print button-up tucked into khaki slacks extends his right hand and waits. Jason claps his own hand firmly into his and squeezes, either calmly inspecting the other.

“What a fortuitous turn of events, my friend. We are going to do good business together.” The man laughs, a raucous sound like a diesel engine idling in the cold, and sets a deceptively amicable hand on Jason’s shoulder. “’Snow White,’ huh?” His accent rounds his full lips around the o and sets a breath between the words: low, then rising into a crisp sound that concludes with a punctuated t. “Is that because of your skin? Perhaps your trade. Or...” He leans in a little, smile widening. “Is it because the kiss of the jungle has finally opened your eyes, yes? You look awake, Jason. I like that.” Jason sees his eyes detour to the space beside Jason’s head. “There is a little man behind you that looks very nervous. I will leave you to it, my friend.”

They shake again, and before Jason can even turn around, the man indicated is crowding in and hissing in his ear.

“He went inside.”

“What?”

“They’re fighting. There’s blood. A lot.”

“Shit, _Ellis_. Stay here.”

Jason shoulders past him and rushes out of the VIP room, past the main bar, and down the hall that leads to Vaas’ room, and when he sees Ellis with a .40 pointed at Vaas’ head, his blood boils.

“What the fuck is this?”

Vaas is on his knees, a steady stream of blood streaking down his jaw from his nose and temple. He licks his lips, looks over at Jason, and offers him a cheery, “Hello!”

“A favor.” Ellis keeps his sights on Vaas. “If you won’t do it, I will. Before it’s too late.”

Vaas quirks a brow and smiles, mouth full of red. A tooth looks busted.

“Put the fucking gun down, Ellis.”

“Why? This prick is dangerous. How long will you wait, Jason?”

“It’s not your decision,” Jason shouts, feeling a familiar pressure behind his eyes and in his chest.

“I’ll be quick. You’ll thank me la--”

Jason’s got his pistol out now too. The hammer clicks with all the decibel of thunder in the small room. Distantly, Jason is aware of Vaas leaning back on his heels and licking across his teeth again, eyes hooded and steady on his jailer, as if the other man with the .40 in his face doesn’t exist at all. Like he’s in a game of chess with Jason, and it’s Jason’s turn.

“You’re serious?” Ellis looks sidelong at Jason, then back to Vaas, cautious of the man even though he’s chained and battered. Jason doesn’t blame him. “You gonna shoot me, brother? For this prick? That’s messed up, man. No.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t think you will.” And raises his weapon the scant inch necessary to align the end of the barrel with Vaas’ forehead.

The crack of gunfire is so loud Jason’s ears are left ringing. He feels the pain of it like needles behind his eyes; he smells hot metal, primer, and powder. The slow-mo, soundless way the body sinks and crumples to the floor is surreal. Jason’s done it a thousand times, but it’s always different when it’s a death he doesn’t see coming, one he doesn’t want.

Fucking idiot. If he’d just...

“Are you alright, Vaas?”

“Shit, Jason...” Vaas’ voice is hoarse, and Jason thinks it’s surprise he hears until he sees the obvious erection straining against the man’s leg in his underwear. Ellis must have caught him sleeping.

This is the bastard he’s killed his friend for. His friend, who’d put him up. Who’d fought beside him and drank across the fire with him.

And when that same bastard looks up and down him and says, “You gonna fuckin’ get on me, or do I have to spell it out?” he doesn’t have to spell shit.

Maybe it’s all the blood.

Maybe it’s that familiar blast of gunfire and the cooling body on the floor that feels a lot like winning--or maybe it’s the contact high he always gets from Vaas, that buzzing in his bones as his heart thrashes against his ribs and his soul unfurls. Outside the club, into the jungle, the very fabric of his being stretched over humid green. The garden they’ve nursed with blood, as savage as any in it.

He didn’t plan on doing it like this.

Jason strides across the room and Vaas opens his mouth and lets him claim the kiss he’d forgone previous, and like previous, there’s blood. Vaas tastes metallic as he slots their tongues together, licking behind his teeth and along the roof of his mouth before Vaas obediently turns over onto his hands and knees, letting Jason come up behind him like some kind of animal as he crouches and hikes the man’s underwear down over his ass.

The cooling body behind him feels so far away. Unimportant.

Vaas is breathing hard into the mattress where he’s been forced down into it, one of Jason’s hands fisting that stripe of greasy hair running across his scalp. It’s longer now and easy to card his fingers through.

He’s grateful for affording Vaas the luxury, what had been more of a joke than a gift, when he recognizes a tin of wax--lubrication for fitting brass in dies for reloading--by the mattress, and hastily uncaps it. As Jason works two slippery fingers into Vass’ ass, he can see every muscle in the man’s back bulge with tension.

“I knew you were a fuckin’ _maricón_ , you motherfu--” Then Jason hooks his fingers, and it’s: “Fuck, Jason, _fuck-fuck-fuck, c’mon_ _,”_ as he spits blood and sits back on his hand.

“Not yet.”

Jason reaches around Vaas’ hip to knock the man’s hand away and replace it with his own, gripping him tightly. Too tightly. Jason feels Vaas clench and hum behind firmly-pressed lips. Feels the copious warmth that dribbles over his hand. There’s already so much, and Jason can’t help but roll Vaas’ foreskin back and experiment with a thumb across his drooling slit, groaning in tandem with the man beneath him as Vaas’ hips jump into the sensation.

Liza had always liked the lights low, romantic, but Vaas, thighs knocked apart, is on display for him, debauched body sucking Jason’s fingers as he pulls them out and stuffs them in again, making Vaas rock forward through the vice of his fist, that soft foreskin smoothing the way.

He doesn’t even bother getting his own pants down. He just pops the button of his jeans, the weight of his arousal straining against the fabric doing most of the work for him. The relief is immense. His hand’s already so slick from Vaas that he wonders if he even needs the reloading grease. He still errs on the side of caution, and by the time he’s slick and lining up, Jason’s more than ready to try Vaas out.

Vaas stays in position, even without Jason’s hand in his hair, and Jason’s grateful. He’s got a good vantage, and when the head of his cock starts to open him up, Vaas sighs and sags against the mattress, letting Jason right inside. _Knowing_ , like he can feel the weight of Jason’s eyes.

“How’s it look, Jason?” Vaas asks during that first agonizing slide in. It’s so good, Jason’s mind fragments. Vaas’ voice is far away. _You gonna fuck me, or what? C’mon. Fuck me with that big, American--_

There are no sweet, slow strokes. He rides him hard, one of Vaas’ hands twisted in the thin sheet and the other exercising a death-grip on the edge. When Vaas starts to slip or sink, Jason hikes his hips up again with a quick yank and continues. He hasn’t had a lot of practice, not with guys, but he finally finds the right angle to make Vaas snarl into the mattress and start pushing back against him.

The hand that Jason’s not using to milk Vaas for everything he has--and God, Jason’s never this wet himself--snakes beneath him to leverage one of Vaas’ shoulders, pulling back as he thrusts forward. His nose is pressed along Vaas’ spine between his shoulder blades so that he can sample the flesh there, bronze and resplendent with perspiration, as he starts to peak. It’s sooner than he expects, taking him by surprise when Vaas suddenly bows his back and clenches around him, adding more release to the already filthy mattress.

Jason’s hips shudder then snap, seating himself fully before succumbing to the intoxicating vice of Vaas’ body and the hot pulse of his climax. A few shallow strokes punctuated by humid puffs of breath between Vaas' shoulders finishes him off, and when Jason finally pulls out, a milky thread of thick ejaculate trails after the tender head of his cock, and he can’t help but slip a finger into Vaas one last time, sampling his work and admiring how it glides easily back into him, right up to the knuckle.

Vaas flops onto his back, lips bitten pink and kiss-swollen; in combination with his dark lashes, Jason thinks he looks like he’s wearing cosmetics.

He barely sees that Vaas has his pistol before the butt of it cracks his skull, and he really should have fucking known.

Agony explodes behind his eyes, dark specs crowding his peripherals like swarming insects. His ears are still ringing from coming so hard, and the last thing he’s ready for is getting pistol-whipped. Fucking Vaas.

Gravity takes him easily to the floor.

He thinks he hears Vaas talking, far away. Sees a watercolor rendering of him somewhere above.

Gunfire, dull, and something else, like bells, a chain, and, _“I’ll see you around, mijo.”_

 

“So... your pet got out?” June asks offhandedly between topics, gaze averted like his answer is inconsequential.

“I’m taking care of it.”

“Oh.” Her fingers rap against the natural wood of the table, drumming some ditty he doesn’t recognize until they abruptly stop, mid-beat. “But he is. Out there, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that really such a good idea? What if he comes back here?”

“He knows who’s in charge.”

June laughs, chokes, and fans away the smoke. “Yeah, I’m sure he does.” She sighs and reclines against the backrest of the booth. “Look, I don’t give a fuck about your personal business or who you screw--I’m just looking out for my prospects. I’m a business woman.” She furrows her brows and flicks the butt of her cigarette, elbow perched atop the table. “You know... no one really knew what to make of it, the way they found you. You never really said. Vaas shot Ellis? But was that before or after you fucked and he gave you that little parting gift?”

Jason sees her gaze shift to the ugly contusion on his forehead. He can feel it every time his expression changes. “Drop it,” more than a hint of irritation in his voice.

What would she say if she had all the facts? He’s not sure he even really cares. Was he sick? Like--

“Okay,” June concedes, “fine. Hey, you ever find that piece of your ear?”

Jason frowns, feeling the indicated part of his anatomy ache beneath its bandage.

 

A few days later, Jason finds Vaas along the shore and chewing on a cigar, his bent figure a dark heap against the red skyline.

“Hey,” Jason calls, announcing his approach. He crouches by the other man, just out of arm’s reach. “Is that Hoyt’s?”

Jason’s just seen the familiar, nondescript journal, looking as he left it except for the satin cord: it marks a page towards the back that Jason wonders about. The journal had disappeared right around the time Vaas had escaped, but Jason hadn’t realized the man had made a detour to his room before his getaway.

“Yeah,” is Vaas’ glib reply as he smokes.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah.”

Jason waits, but Vaas continues looking listlessly out over the water. Then he slowly turns his head towards Jason and plucks his cigar from his mouth before pointedly snubbing it out on the cover of the book, watching Jason as he does it.

“Family, huh?” Vaas tell him with a little smile. “Every. Fucking. Time, _hermano_.”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“No,” Vaas says with a grunt as he hops up, book in tow.

Then pitches it into the tide.

It’s gone in an instant without so much as a ceremonial splash. A wave crests and bows the horizon, swallowing up the dark, fluttering shape as if it were an errant gull gliding too low. Jason waits to see it wash back up on the shore to spite Vaas, but it’s gone.

Hoyt, the past, all that shit that Jason supposes never matters here.

Jason sets his elbows on his knees and watches the sea for a while alongside him, the ocean one giant inky swell against the bruised heavens. The sun’s already dipped out of view, and there’s something unsettling about all that violent noise coming from something he can’t properly see. From the black. There’s an uptick in his pulse, but he’s not so sure it’s the ocean’s doing.

When Vaas finally turns to leave, Jason throws a shoulder in the bend of his knee and manages to bring the man down. Vaas still has him in weight, at least now that he’s healthy again, despite that Jason has filled out considerably in the past few months. Vaas manages to pin him on his back, a forearm crushed against Jason’s throat. When Jason doesn’t fight him off and wheezes out a dry laugh instead, Vaas hesitates. Backs off a little.

“Motherfucker, what are you--” Vaas grumbles something in Spanish when he feels Jason’s burgeoning interest trapped beneath him.

Jason sits up and starts to lift Vaas’ shirt off until Vaas cusses him, knocks his fumbling hands away, and does it himself--which is fine by Jason. He openly watches, resting back on his elbows.

They’re at such an angle to the sun that half of Vaas’ figure is bathed in fading twilight, planes of savage red relieved against impenetrable shadow. He can really appreciate the topography of his body like this, every raised scar in sharp contrast with its surrounding tissue. Especially the rippling one running down his left pectoral: Jason’s pièce de résistance.

Vaas’ body is a canvas of networked scars and healing wounds, and now it’s Jason’s. He wonders if Vaas looks at the scar across his scalp and thinks of his sister, that last tug on the thread of his sanity, and if he sees the one on his chest and thinks of Jason, a thread to something else altogether. Because there’s something different happening here, a perverse kind of tenderness and gravitas that should be refused them; they’re insatiable killers that don’t even wholly exclude the other from their vice.

It’s not that they won’t eventually do it, it’s that no one else is permitted to. They belong to each other in that way. And every transient moment of shameless fucking is in the shadow of it, every moment of--

Jason can’t quite bring himself to think it, let alone say it as he scrubs his hands up and down a back and sucks lazy kisses out of a mouth. The humid lips near his healing ear make him buck his hips and balk in the same breath, and Vaas laughs against his cheek and rolls against him, squeezes the hand he has around them both.

It feels like hours. It’s dark by the time they break apart. The sky is leeched of its last burgundy and has turned black, flecked with shivering stars and scored by primitive warbling and deep bellows.

Before they head their separate ways, Vaas turns on his heels, “Oh, hey,” and presses something into his hand.

“It’s... a cow,” Jason says, bringing the small pendant closer to his face.

“No, _puto_ , it’s--know what? Forget it.” Vaas throws an arm up in a lazy gesture of farewell.“You better get ready, Jason!” he eventually shouts, well after he’s out of sight.

Jason figures he better. It’s going to be a hell of a fight, only somehow Jason’s ended up on the other side of the field. He’s accepted that. He’s capable. Knows what he’s doing.

He hums thoughtfully and inspects the carving again.

On second thought, it’s probably a bison.

 


End file.
